I’m making French bread to go with breakfast eggs from Cleo the chicken. I’ve never worked with yeast before. It breathes, it stretches, and it smells like a sleepy lover–how could you not say good morning to such a substance? Tim makes fun of me when I wake up my dough with flour and water, and chat to it about the night it’s had, and show it the moves I learned last night watching Saturday Night Fever. But I’m in the city today, where there are no chickens to shimmy with over tinned sweetcorn. And it’s less crazy to talk to spores and birds than to screens and cars, no?


Because the internet is all about telling the world what you had for breakfast…

Farm Breakfast

11 thoughts on “Dough”

  1. Genevieve, Udge, and Jill: it’s lovely to hear from you.

    Clairey, at least I don’t have a Photo Rosebush yet…

    Karlin, come visit! I was disappointed you didn’t make the Paddy’s Valley tour last month.

    John, I’m sure I can manage an oul’ loaf next time I hit the Sunset. Give me a call if you feel like last-minute pints this week.


  2. This joke works better with two eggs not four:

    Two eggs get cracked open into a sizzling frying pan. The first egg says,
    “Is it me or is it hot in here?”

    The second egg says, “Holy Cow! A talking egg!”


  3. Dervla,
    You must stop everything you are doing and the people you are doing it with. You must marry me now! I will do everything you ask me to except ‘I won’t do that’. Be with me !


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